Miss Mitarashi
by Miss Hydrangea
Summary: Anko wants a new job. Why not teach? ...Besides the obvious, of course.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Naruto, nor its many characters. This story's mine, though, and I hope you enjoy reading it.

* * *

"I _hate_ waitressing. I did _not_ get a college degree just so I could take people's orders and grovel for tips like a whore," I fumed, glaring at my drink. Stupid restaurant didn't even have bendy straws. What kind of restaurant doesn't have bendy straws? …Oh right, the one I work at. Kurenai raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Flicking off a customer counts as groveling for tips?"

"That was only one guy today. And he was obnoxious. You have _no_ idea," I retorted. Once again, Kurenai quirked her eyebrow. What was wrong with the woman? She's supposed to be my best friend, yet all she does is twitch that spastic eyebrow at me.

"Weren't you the one who quit her office job because it was too boring?" She grinned, "I do recall a certain _someone_ saying she'd rather work tables than sit at a desk all day."

"You aren't helping!" I snapped, "You're supposed to be pitying me! Some friend _you_ are." She laughed, and I stuck out my tongue.

"Anko, if you're that desperate for a job, there's an opening at the school where I work. We're short on staff, and you'd get summers off. It's pretty nice, actually."

"The pay sucks, though, doesn't it? And the kids…" I shuddered.

"Ah, it's not that bad. Better than you're doing now, isn't it? _And_ you don't have to grovel for tips."

"Yeah, yeah… I'll think about it."


	2. Chapter 1: In which Anko is fired

**Chapter 1: In which Anko is fired.**

"Hey lady, what do I have to do to get some service, scream my throat out?" I turned around slowly. Maybe he wasn't talking to me. Maybe he was talking to some other girl. Just 'cuz there isn't another female working right now doesn't mean he's talking to _me_. Gah, we made eye contact. If there's _one_ thing I've learned on this job, it's this: if you don't make eye contact, you can pretend you didn't hear them. Even if they're shouting and the only customer in the restaurant, if you don't make eye contact, you can legitimately say you didn't know they were there—even if you're the one that seated them.

"What do you want?" I bared my teeth at the man. That should count as a welcoming smile, right? I got told off yesterday for being too hostile to the customers. What is this, a spa?

"Finally, some service," he scowled, "You forgot to give me ice. I can't drink warm juice." Ice? He's yapping at me because I didn't give him enough _ice?_ I took his glass, careful not to touch the oily marks left by his greasy fingers and dumped it. Now he wouldn't have to drink warm juice. Why anyone would drink our orange juice with _anything—_ never mind with _fried_ _chicken—_ I really don't know. We _say_ it's fresh squeezed every morning, but the only thing I've seen squeezed into that juice is food coloring.). I returned the empty glass to him.

"I'm sorry," I said airily, "It seems like our ice machine broke."

"Why does he have—" _The world ain't fair and it never has been, boy. Learn it quick._

"Oh my, look at the time," I looked at my bare wrist, "You'll have to excuse me, but I'm on my break now. Enjoy the rest of your meal." I left him spluttering at the table and wipe my hands on a nearby table cloth. Ick, I _hate_ having oily hands, almost as much as I hate oily men.

"Excuse me." I looked towards the table whose—shit. That wasn't a tablecloth. A long-haired man glared at me, yanking his sleeve out of my grasp. Well, he didn't yank it, really; it was much more graceful than that. In any case, he was angry. I just stood there stupidly, staring. Long dark hair, the pale skin of his face contorted in disgust—oh. His eyes were white. He was a Hyuuga. I shook my head, as if in a daze.

It was like waking up to a devil—a quiet, hissing devil that was wearing a suit that probably cost more than my apartment. I tuned him out again and re-examined his appearance. His hair was a muddy blackish brown, not inky black; his skin was a pale, sickly hue, like a man who doesn't get enough sleep rather than a porcelain white color; his skin was lined with wrinkles (Or maybe that was just how he looks when he's angry? I swear, these Hyuuga can be so uptight. It's just a little grease on your sleeve, you were going to wash it anyways, right? …Well, maybe not. They all seem to wear the same thing every day, it's a bit odd, if you ask me.); his voice was not at all smooth nor soft, but came out in harsh, guttural bursts (not that I was listening to what he was actually _saying_). I mentally smacked myself for thinking he might have been, could have been—someone. I sighed. This day was going down the tube a mile a minute.

"…speak to your manager." It took me a while to realize he'd stopped talking.

"Say again? I didn't catch the last part." That was the wrong thing to ask, apparently. He began his lecture again, and I think he started from the beginning. Only this time, he was louder. The manager ran over to our table. He apologized profusely for—I really don't know, I still wasn't listening.

"Anko, you're fired. Effective immediately. Go. Now," the manager growled. " And don't you _dare_ forget to leave your uniform, or so help me Kami-sama, I will—"

"Got it," I snapped. "Just give me my paycheck and I'll go." I wouldn't have asked him for the money, except that (a) I earned every cent of that lousy paycheck, and (b) I need the money for groceries, 'cuz all I got left in my fridge is mustard.

"You paycheck?" he spluttered—I just realized that I can't remember his name (not that it matters, since I don't work for him anymore). "Your paycheck is going towards Mr. Hyuuga's dry cleaning bill." Damn. I don't think half a jar of mustard is going to last me very long. I sauntered slowly over to the back of the restaurant, grinning as the manager's face turns purple. Inside the back room, I change out of my uniform quickly. A box of Sweet'N Low in the storage room catches my eye. Mm… carcinogenic sweeteners. Maybe they'll go well with mustard? I stuffed fistfuls of packets into my pockets and left.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This chapter was going to be a _little_ longer, it felt segmented and kind of broken, so I'll put the last piece (of what was supposed to be in this chap) in the next chapter. In any case, I was wondering--does the cursing bother any of you? I was having the inner-debate-of-indecisiveness with my many selves, and we couldn't decide whether to use substitutes (i.e. "shoot" and "darn") or just leave the words in there. I'm not a big fan of x-ing or dashing out parts of words, because then you focus on the word itself more, what-all with trying to figure out which word it was or whatever. Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)


End file.
